Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [347]
But he couldn’t afford to waste any more time. Being late would not only mean breaking his promise but put him at a considerable disadvantage. For a lone warrior attempting to take on an army of opponents, the ideal time, he surmised, was the brief interval after the moon had set but before the sky was completely light.
He recalled the old saying “It is easy to crush an enemy outside oneself but impossible to defeat an enemy within.” He had vowed to expel Otsū from his thoughts, had even bluntly told her this as she had clung to his sleeve. Yet he seemed unable to shake her voice from his mind.
He cursed softly. “I’m acting like a woman. A man on a man’s mission has no business thinking about frivolities like love!”
He spurred himself on, running as fast as he could. Then all at once he caught sight, below him, of a white ribbon rising from the foot of the mountain through the bamboo and trees and fields, one of the roads to Ichijōji. He was only about four hundred yards from the point where it met with the other two roads. Through the milky mist he could make out the branches of the great spreading pine.
He dropped to his knees, his body tense. Even the trees around him seemed transformed into potential enemies. As nimbly as a lizard, he left the path and made his way to a point directly above the pine tree. A gust of cold wind swept down from the mountaintop, pushing the mist in a great rolling wave over the pine trees and bamboo. The branches of the spreading pine quivered, as though to warn the world of impending disaster.
Straining his eyes, he could just discern the figures of ten men standing perfectly still around the pine tree, their lances poised. The presence of others elsewhere on the mountain he could feel, even though he couldn’t see them. Musashi knew he had now entered the province of death. A feeling of awe brought goose pimples even to the backs of his hands, but his breathing was deep and steady. Down to the tips of his toes, he was keyed for action. As he crept slowly forward, his toes gripped the ground with the strength and sureness of fingers.
A stone embankment that might once have been part of a fortress was nearby. On an impulse, he made his way among the rocks to the eminence on which it had stood. There he found a stone torii looking straight down on the spreading pine. Behind it was the sacred precinct, protected by rows of tall evergreens, among which he could see a shrine building.
Though he had no idea which deity was honored here, he ran through the grove to the shrine gate and knelt before it. With death so near, he could not keep his heart from trembling at the thought of the sacred presence. The shrine was dark inside, save for a holy lamp, swaying in the wind, threatening to expire, then miraculously recapturing its full brightness. The plaque above the door read “Hachidai Shrine.”
Musashi took comfort from the thought that he had a powerful ally, that if he charged down the mountain, the god of war would be behind him. The gods, he knew, always supported the side that was right. He recalled how the great Nobunaga, on his way to the Battle of Okehazama, had paused to pay his respects at the Atsuta Shrine. The discovery of this holy place seemed felicitous indeed.
Just inside the gate was a stone basin, where supplicants could cleanse themselves before praying. He rinsed out his mouth, then took a second mouthful and sprayed water on the hilt of his sword and the cords of his sandals. Thus purified, he hitched up his sleeves with a leather thong and tied on a cotton headband. Flexing his leg muscles as he walked, he went to the steps of the shrine and put his hand on the rope hanging from the gong above the entrance. In time-honored fashion, he was about to give the gong a rap and say a prayer to the deity.
Catching himself, he quickly withdrew his hand. “What am I doing?” he thought in horror. The rope, plaited with red and white cotton cord, seemed to be inviting him to